


Shadow Play

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:09:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's probably a little too smug about Rodney's inability to sleep without him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadow Play

The lab is always half-lit when it's this late, Atlantis cycling down as her halls empty and the night shifts take over. Weir's mandated that they keep to a nine-to-five schedule as much as possible, although the senior staff blithely ignores that particular order. The rest of the staff accepts it with grace, though. John's grateful for it. He likes wandering the halls, trailing his fingers down walls that feel warmer than metal, smoother than silk, leaving greasy fingerprints only he can see.

He likes it for other reasons, too.

Rodney's hunched and glaring at his laptop when John enters, broken bits of something spread out on the table around him. He's muttering, blood-shot eyes flickering as he looks from the piece shaped like an inverted lightbulb to what has to be schematics on the screen. He doesn't hear John approaching.

"McKay." John rests his weight on Rodney's shoulder, smothering the start before it's fully formed. His hand goes around the back of Rodney's neck, thumb pressing hard along the tendon that always goes twisted, fibers wrapped around like springs, rusted immobile.

"Go away, Colonel."

He's mad about something. John doesn't know what and doesn't honestly care. Rodney's not quite petty enough to play guess-what-I'm-thinking -- he hates being misunderstood too much to try -- and eventually Rodney will get over it. He always does. It can't be too serious if Rodney's only insulting him, after all. Leaning even more heavily into Rodney's shoulder makes him shift and mutter something about personal space and boundaries and wasn't he supposed to be standoffish with everyone except perky, blonde, space-sluts?

John smirks and works his thumb up and down the tendon, pressing hard when a crackle signals the faintest of releases. He doubts Rodney's really upset about Ilyana. She'd hit on John, then Ronon, then Rodney, then _Teyla_ , and each one had turned her aside with barely concealed distaste; she's just too easy a subject.

"Time to close up, McKay. It's late."

"Yes, because providing adequate temperature control is something no one cares about, Colonel, and they will not all try to _lynch_ me when it's not fixed tomorrow." It sounds right, snappy and angry and just a little bit smug, but John knows better. Best. John knows _best_. There's a whine in Rodney's voice that no one would ever expect of him. The kind that says even the great Rodney McKay can't control everything and it's whittling him down, second by second.

He hasn't slept in coming up on three days. John knows because Rodney never sleeps well except in his own bed, so between the most recent mission and the thermostat crisis -- he calls it that just to see Zelenka froth -- Rodney's probably had a few cat-naps at most. John's been gone, too, off on the mainland for the last two days.

He's probably a little too smug about Rodney's inability to sleep without him.

"We'll survive, McKay. Close up." He's careful not to let his tone fall into the familiar snap of giving orders. Rodney's not a soldier and resents being treated like one. John knows -- and Rodney knows -- that the words are still a command, though, and that it's in Rodney's best interest to obey.

John can only get away with it when Rodney's like this, pared down to a restless, useless mind, and a body too exhausted to do anything but ache. He likes that more than he should, too.

Another few seconds just to make a point, and then Rodney's saving his work, closing the laptop and putting away the shattered fragments. He doesn't stand up. He can't, not with John's hand on the back of his neck, eyes half-closed as John lets his fingers knead, thumb still pressing hard over the knot that rarely ever eases.

"Mm," Rodney says. He probably means for it to be words, consonants and vowels, recognizable. It isn't. Just a mumbled moan as he tips his head back, eyes half-closed as he lets John touch him.

John stays there for a few minutes, letting Rodney's heart slow, his breathing even, until he's probably minutes from falling into an exhausted stupor. Perfect. "Lift up, Rodney." John helps, because a plaint Rodney lacks coordination, cupping a hand under Rodney's elbow to get him on his feet, tipped over the table, weight on his forearms. "There, that's good."

Rodney's head drops onto his hands, gusting a sigh that fills the room. John ignores it, busy. He's good at this, efficient and sure and in less than a minute, the door to the labs are locked, Rodney's pants are undone and pushed to his knees, and John's got two slick fingers inside him.

"What're you -- dammit, I thought you said you weren't -- wouldn't -- " Rodney doesn't stop talking, caustic, mumbling refusals, bitter recriminations, and the constant harping that this is the last place they should be doing this. "You never _listen_ to me."

He does, though. John listens harder to Rodney than anyone he's ever met. He's just learned not to listen to Rodney's _mouth._

Resting his free hand on Rodney's ass, John enjoys the flex and release as Rodney arches into the touch, moaning around his newest insult, as John swaps fingers for his own slicked up cock. Rodney keeps on talking, saying _no_ enough that John's damned glad he figured out how to turn off the surveillance system. If anyone is close enough to hear... "No, John, _don't_ ," Rodney cries, as broken and fragmented as the pieces of destroyed machinery next to him on the table.

John ignores him. It's been almost a week since their last messy, hasty hand-job outside the control room, and that's too damned long. He wants to fuck -- wants to fuck _Rodney_ \-- needing the release and familiar heat and slicked up, silken glide over his cock. He leans over Rodney's back, one arm to support himself, the other sliding down and around. He doesn't stroke, the way Rodney begs him to. That's not the point. He just holds, cupping Rodney into the palm of his hand, giving him something to rock against with each of John's steady thrusts.

"Bastard," Rodney finally hisses. He's into it now, no more _no, please, stop_ that he never means anyway. His moans are desperate and longing, body arching back to meet John each and every time, accepting it as sweetly as he always does. Rodney was born to be fucked, with his perfect, perfect ass, the responsiveness that's better than anyone else John's ever had -- and he's had plenty. Rodney loves being fucked, craves it, but he forgets, sometimes. Forgets that what he really needs isn't his own orgasm, the pushpushpush of his own driving need, but someone else holding him down, forcing him to take it, to want it, someone else controlling the rhythms of his body, the need that rises through him and never crests.

It won't, John knows. Not yet.

His own need quickens his hips, sweat sliding down his back and dampening temples he refuses to acknowledge might be turning grey. None of it's relevant, just the body that grunts and groans below him, spreading to allow John whatever access he wants.

John lays his cheek against Rodney's shoulder blade and lets his eyes shut. The position is hell on his joints, but it's worth it. Rodney stops making those soft, needy noises, stops trying to convince John to stop teasing him and get him off already. He just stays where he is, letting John's weight suffocate him, spitted on John's cock, shivering hard enough that John doesn't _need_ to thrust forward. It's good enough just like this.

For a while, at least.

Rolling his head, John kisses Rodney's shoulder and says, "Ready?"

"No. No, I'm not."

John kisses him again, biting down so that cotton fibers dig into his tongue. "Sure you aren't." Rodney's legs widen, back arching as John resettles onto his heels. The slow, steady pace from before is gone, marathon abandoned in exchange for a desperate, frantic sprint. John slams in, again and again, spurred on by Rodney's bitten off cries of _ow_ and _no, please, too much_ , because that's not what he means, and never what he wants. John fucks until his cock aches, until he has to shove Rodney face-first into the table, his own fingers digging into Rodney's skin as he comes and comes and comes, sparks showering in front of his eyes.

When John blinks back into awareness, Rodney's panting as hard as he is for all his cock is still hard and aching. Carefully, John pulls out and cleans himself up. Rodney doesn't move the entire time, not until John finishes buttoning both their pants and tugs Rodney upwards, into his arms.

He's heavy, but John's strong, and used to this. He can bear Rodney's weight forever.

"Mm," Rodney says into his neck. "Nn."

John laughs, licking a bead of sweat as it slides down behind Rodney's jaw. Stubble rasps over his tongue, not quite painful, and sexy as hell. "Ready to walk back?"

One eye peeks out, glaring. Rodney's skin sags around the jaw, not as loosely as it has in the past, but not nearly as tight as the pictures of his youth display, either. It's a favorite place to kiss. "Are you going to abandon me? Again?"

Once, John had done that, when _he_ had been the angry one, winding Rodney up and never letting him come down. Rodney's never let him forget it; John has always known the best ways to hurt Rodney, and the confirmation makes his stomach twist when he thinks about it too much. He distracts Rodney with a kiss, biting his lower lip hard enough that tomorrow he'll complain about ice and secrecy and coddling.

Tonight, Rodney just moans, eyes fluttering.

Walking is difficult with Rodney too hard for mobility, too drained and exhausted to stand up on his own. They manage, though, hobbling down darkened, empty halls. "No," John says as they wind their way towards Rodney's quarters. "I'm not going to abandon you, McKay."

"I'm too important to the expedition, you know. I'm very important to them." Rodney sounds drunk, slurring and distracted. The doors hiss as they open, but are soundless when they close. No one's ever been able to figure out why.

Pushing and tugging, John strips Rodney bare and gets Rodney flat on his back, head on a pillow. Rodney pouts when John stops touching him long enough to shuck off his own clothes. Rodney's pouts are dangerous things -- he's not manipulative, the way John knows he is. When he makes that face it's true heartbreak in his eyes, a yearning that's too painful to be anything but sincere.

John erases the look with a kiss. "Yeah, McKay. That's it. It's just the expedition that needs you." Kneeling between spread legs, John works his mouth wet before he bends down to suck on the head of Rodney's cock. He knows Rodney will probably fall asleep before he's done, particularly if this last as long as John wants it to. That's fine. John's never liked having an audience, and tomorrow, Rodney will bitch and gripe and moan over not being able to watch until the end.

John distracts himself by planning exactly what he's going to do to make it up to Rodney. He loves sucking on Rodney, loves the way Rodney touches him, like he's fragile and breakable and seconds away from vanishing out the door. He likes best, though, when Rodney relaxes into half-sleep, one hand warm and large against John's cheek, cock thick and heavy in John's mouth, still whispering _no_ and _please_.

John knows what he means. John knows exactly what he means.


End file.
